


one for the money (two for the show)

by capmackie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 03:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capmackie/pseuds/capmackie
Summary: james’ a fightersam owns a barcan i make it anymore obvious?





	one for the money (two for the show)

There's very little to be said about a man in James' line of work.

In all honesty, there's a shit-ton to be said, just very little of it positive.

As the muscle for Hydra, a criminal enterprise housing New York's biggest drug traffickers, James Barnes rules over the five boroughs with an iron fist, quite literally. Any product that reaches the shores of the East Coast has to be checked in with James, he needs to know where it's going, where it comes from and who sent it.

Acting as the liaison between his crew at Hydra and the streets of New York, James finds himself in the thick of things more often than not — usually because that’s exactly where he's thrown himself.

And there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

James' a child of the fire, born in it, forged in it, blessed and cursed with a fiery temperament as a result.

Quick to action with very little regard for policies and procedures, James’ more akin to wildfire, beautiful and destructive, than actual mortal.

Or, at least, that's what the legend says, no one who's ever opposed him can be reached to either confirm or deny the myth.

_But that's the things about legends, sometimes they're true. _

The man himself has been subjected to much speculation, to the point no one actually knows anything about him.

Some say he's an even six feet, others say he's larger than life. In the Midwest, they say he never speaks, dealers from the South says his voice sounds like thunder, a low rumble usually following a loud crack. From coast to coast, there are mumbles of the legend of James Barnes, the soldier, the machine, the alpha and the omega.

James Barnes who is everything and nothing all the same.

\--------------

There are very few things in the world James allows himself to want.

He wants chaos, he wants order, wants control, power, the gap-toothed owner over at The Falcon bar — him especially.

All in all, Bucky's a man of simple pleasures.

But above all of those things, what James wants right now is to see the life slip out of the body below him. He wants to look this guy right in the eye and affirm that the end is near and that James is the one who's gonna deliver the final blow.

Wants to see those eyes go dark, wants to see the guy's chest rise one final time and sink down, never to inhale again.

But the guy won't stop fucking fighting back — and damn it, this isn't how his Tuesday was supposed to go.

This was supposed to be easy — kick a little ass, take a few names and be about his way. But no some asshole from Upstate had to get mouthy and if there's anything James hates more than cops, it's two-bit criminals who's watched Scarface too many times and think they're Tony Montana incarnate.

So here he is, right hand bloodied and bruised from the force of his punches while the left-hand holds a vice grip on the man's neck, metal plates shifting to allow just a sliver of oxygen so the asshole won't blackout before James' finished.

Besides the fact that his three-piece Brioni suit is ruined thanks to various blood splatters, James' now pissed since Hydra was counting on solidifying a deal with the idiot who's now dangling two feet off of the ground thanks to the indefinite strength of the metal arm.

Vic Meroni, who's own idiocy is now leading to his demise, was the firstborn of the second generation of Meroni's, Italian immigrants who made their fortune flooding impoverished neighborhoods with potent and cheap drugs.

James isn't exactly the moral center for these kinds of issues but the chaos the heavy imports are causing, turf wars — more violence than the city has seen in a decade, is garnering more attention from the NYPD by the day and James has it on good word that the Feds are starting to take notice as well. A sit-down to discuss the most opportune way to handle the new influx was in the best interest of both parties but it had all gone to shit once Meroni got comfortable enough to make a Terminator joke on James' behalf.

Fast forward to now, as James' grip squeezes tighter and only releases when the light slowly leaves Meroni's eyes, body jerking once more before going completely still.

Behind him, he hears Rogers yawn.

"Am I _boring_ you, Steve?", James questions, dropping the lifeless body and turning to face his best friend and right-hand man.

"Is there anywhere else you'd rather be right now Captain?"

"Oh no, Bucky, how can I be bored?", Steve starts.

"How can I be when you're singlehandedly causing a war between us and every other crime syndicate on the East Coast?"

“Fuck you, this was the first and only time.", Bucky, _ahem_ James protests and is immediately met with a scoff from Steve.

"What about the Russo's? The Romano's?"

In all fairness, James had a reason for eliminating the heirs of each of those families. A valid reason, no, but a reason nonetheless. Who cares?

Steve apparently cares, wasting no time before he's bemoaning James' recklessness.

"You're too hot-headed Bucky", Steve continues, "this isn't the way to run a business.”

"At some point, we're going to have more enemies than friends and I hope you're ready to deal with that."

James snorts; Steve was always the responsible one between the two, even as kids terrorizing the streets of Brooklyn. Growing up poor bonded them instantly, two separate people related thanks to shared traumas. While James would menace for menace sakes, Steve was the one looking for the path of least resistance, trying to see how they can get want they needed while causing the least amount of damage to others. They made a great team, James vicious and outwardly relentless and Steve level-headed and inwardly relentless.

Their differences in operating helped to save each other asses a multitude of times, from the playground to when Steve followed James into a life of crime.

James was born into a family with shady dealings, con artists and crooks who risked everything, including their family’s livelihood for a quick buck. Naturally, taking what he wanted with no regard for others came easy to James. It was this that helped him quickly climb up the ranks in the crime circuit — here he built a name for himself as a ruthless fighter, a weapon of mass destruction — eventually running his own section of the city.

It was Steve who took a little longer to warm up to the idea.

Their modus operandi manifested in two separate ways for the best friends; James never saw a problem he couldn't sink his teeth in to get his way and sink his teeth in again to get out of harm’s way. James excelled at bending the wills of others by sheer force, moving mountains by adding more pressure, more strength until they eventually yielded to him.

Steve was the complete opposite, he never had to force his way on others, never had to snarl and bare his teeth as James did. Steve was steadfast and strong and by sheer persistence and just the right amount of pressure, the mountain convinced itself that there was somewhere else it rather be and that it was time to move. His patience and ability to lead earned him the nickname of Captain in the underground world.

The two of them worked in tandem, two sides of the same coin, guided by a sense of familiarity that ran so deep between them that they were certain in a past life and many lives before and after that, they were and always will be brothers in arms.

“I thought you were with me to the end of the line Rogers”, James says, turning to leave, before Steve can launch into yet another spiel of ‘accountability’ and ‘thinking with his head and not his fists’.

“Don’t start chickening out now.”

\-------------

Stopping by his condo overlooking the Upper East Side, James quickly changes his clothes, discarding the slightly bloodied assemble for a new suit, something casual, a two-piece Tom Ford number that fits him like a dream. Then he's off to The Bronx to see a little birdy.

\--------------

It's midnight when he arrives.

The night is cool, an autumn wind settling over the city, making James pull his collar around his face.

The fall is a beautiful time in New York, the hustle and bustle of the city are still there but it isn't as frantic as summertime New York, not as stifling as the city in the winter. People take their time in the fall, fall in love in the fall, let their guard down in the fall.

Fall is always great for Hydra. With crime rates peaking in the summertime and spilling over into the fall season, Hydra enjoys a bit of anonymity as the NYPD focuses on the bigger offenses. Just as long as they keep their shit in order, Hydra’s allowed to come and go as they please.

A few connects down at the police station also sweeten the deal.

Business is good, great honestly, even with today's mishap — he'll have to deal with the Meroni's at some point in time, but that's an issue for another day. Right now, James' sole focus is on the bar in front of him, red neon lights announcing its presence on the otherwise empty street.

It's James's favorite place to be. The drinks are strong, the band is good most of the time, but the real pleasure is the bar owner, Sam Wilson.

If Sam was a wiser man, he would’ve turned James around the first day they met, should’ve barred him from The Falcon right when he arrived, beat all to hell but still standing, still smiling like having four cracked ribs was a good time.

Sam’s no idiot but he’s definitely isn’t wise. That’s the only reason he allowed James to stay the first time, the only reason why he’s allowed James to come back after every other time, after every other fight.

And fought James did, like his life depended on it. With no rhyme or reason, James fought. He wasn’t as graceful as his cohorts but he also hasn’t gotten his ass kicked as often as they did, so he counts that as a win. There was no suaveness, no skill when James battled, just pure rage. He fought like he did everything else in his life; like he worked, like he fucked: with a laser-focused intensity, like everything in the world is his for the taking. He was a scrappy fighter, more than willing to harm himself if that meant absolutely obliterating an enemy.

Which is exactly how he met Sam, so technically it worked out in James' favor.

_ After searching through most of The Bronx for a pair of low-brow dealers accused of stiffing two Hydra recruits, James found himself short on time and low on patience — resulting in a brawl when he eventually received the right intel and stormed into a dealers' operation with nothing but his two fists as backup. _

_Depending on who you ask, there's a multitude of ways one James Barnes came out of a cartel of eight guys short of a stretcher but he had done it._

_ He had done it and then went to celebrate his accomplishment. _

_Which led him to The Falcon and to Sam Wilson, who instantly cursed him out for getting blood on his furniture. _

_The blood-red furniture, mind you — “who the fuck would even notice”? _

_"That's not the point, it's the principle of things.”_

_Sam Wilson was many things. Infuriating, deceptively clever, handsome as the devil; in a past life, some kind of medic the way he patched James up as he sat bleeding in his bar, insulting him as he stitched him up with great care. _

_It didn't take long for James to fall in whatever his fucked-up version of love is._

_ It is taking longer to get Sam on board with the plan, however. _

With a curt nod to the bouncer, James walks through the heavy double doors and feels the tension he always carries melt at the familiar sight before him.

The bar is bathed in it’s signature red light, similar to the sign outdoors, similar to the blood-red seats adorning the bar.

It’s a vampire’s wet dream.

The regulars are here, plus a couple of new faces and that puts James on high alert until he sees what he came looking for.

Sam Wilson.

From his vantage point, James can see Sam in all of his glory; he’s wearing a red polo with The Falcon logo emblazoned on the chest, his arms stretching the shirt deliciously, and he can see the way the slacks accentuate Sam's ass.

He can also see how whoever Sam was speaking to has now alerted the man of his presence and after a quick handshake, Sam makes his way over to the booth he's sitting at.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes", James flirts, "what's a fella like you doing in a place like this?"

Sam scoffs, no doubt used to how heavy James lays it on sometimes.

"Well some of us have to make an honest living, don't we James?"

Sam's words harbor a contempt that James knows the bar owner really doesn't share, that if Sam really has a problem with what he thinks James does — no one really knows for sure, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s a game to the both of them, how much Sam can put up with and how much James can give.

And James can give it all night long.

A predatory smile creeps over the fighter’s face as he leans in closer to Sam, taking as much space as possible; he wants to see the bar owner flinch away, gratified when Sam continues to sit still, not biting the bait.

“Well darling”, James drawls, “my living is just as honest as the liquor license you don’t have.”

_That_ gets a reaction out of Sam, shock flitting across his face before it settles back into indifference. Then Sam’s leaning into James’ space, a hairbreadth away from his lips, so close that James can feel how warm his breath is, can smell the gum Sam is chewing and the whiskey he’s been drinking in equal measures.

“What are you gonna do?”, Sam asks, looking at James through his lashes, feigning innocence.

“Call the police on me?”

As much as James would love to close the fraction of the distance between them, see if Sam’s lips are as soft as they look, steal a kiss _and_ the upper hand, he doesn’t want this back and forth between them to end quite yet.

No, he wants Sam begging for him, keyed up for a release only he can give.

If that means James has to delay his own gratification to ensure Sam yearns for him and him only, so be it. Good things come to those who wait anyway.

“And ruin the good thing we have?”, James purrs, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

James slides backward, putting the distance back between them and tries to think of something, anything to get rid of his hard-on beneath the table.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love this shit.

\--------------

“Corner pocket.”

James stares down at the table before him, mentally lining up his shot before launching his attack, knocking the striped ball right where he said he would.

He’s a man of his word after all.

“Shut the fuck up Barnes,” Rumlow bellows, fishing the keys to his vintage Aston Martin out of his pocket and handing them over to James.

James doesn’t give a fuck about vintage cars but it is nice to knock Rumlow off his high horse for a little bit.

Rumlow’s one of Hydra’s best runners, joining the group after a short prison stint with a rap sheet just barely longer than his kill sheet.

For a man with as much _talent_ as Rumlow, he has an easily exploitable weakness: pride.

He’s in the middle of prepositioning James for another game — double or nothing when they’re interrupted by a knock on the wooden door.

“You’re a glutton for punishment Rumlow”, James chides, resetting the balls in the triangle, “come in.”

The door opens and in walks Hulk, Hydra’s other muscle, with James Demons in tow.

It’s easier to schedule a meeting with the president than Hydra but Demon’s coupled with the promise of information on a drop scheduled to take place in a week’s time and his family’s clout, James was compelled to meet.

“Wanna play?”

He’s referring to the game but he never breaks eye contact with Demons. The question is double-loaded, James is more than aware that something is amiss but he silences his intuition, quickly sizes the guy up and determines the most opportune way to get out of this situation if it goes to shit.

\--------------

James chalks his cue stick and stares down at the table, planning his next six moves and purposely pockets the wrong balls.

It’s a rare miss, so unusual Rumlow lets out a small noise of surprise.

But it’s all a part of the plan; James doesn’t lose and he isn’t going to start now.

Especially not to the idiot he’s playing against, who thinks he’s being inconspicuous by wearing the recording device on his belt and not on his person.

James snorts, everyone knows the best place for a wire is a cuff link.

Either it’s the hubris of winning a game against the notorious James Barnes or the fact that Demons thinks he’s actually getting one over on Hydra but he starts to get sloppy.

His originally stoic demeanor has begun to relax, revealing secret info in response to well-timed questions Rumlow’s asked him, revealing, even more when James follows up with another question.

It would be fun if it wasn’t so pathetic.

Seriously, is this who’s supposed to bring their enterprise down?

Some wet-behind- the-ears criminal so twitchy he might as well be telegraphing that he’s an informant?

James sticks the final question and waits for the only piece of information he cares about, _who in the hell sent this guy? _

And as expected, Demons gives up a name, passes it off as nothing major but James can’t help himself, he’s been bored since this meeting started, it’s time to have a little fun.

“SHIELD, huh?”,

The look of absolute horror that registers on the informant’s face, which has completely been drained of blood, is almost worth the two hours of meaningless back and forth it took to get here.

“This is gonna be fun”, Rumlow says, tightening the fingerless leather gloves he’s wearing.

James lands the first blow, a quick strike to the guy’s solar plexus, rendering him unconscious before he even hits the concrete floor.

He doesn’t even see it coming.

\--------------

“Ready for the fun to begin Sleeping Beauty?”

These are the moments James lives for.

Where he can exercise the right to be wholly himself with no consequence, save for some cleanup.

It’s in this space where he feels most like a God, revered, feared, called upon for mercy.

He’s the beginning and the end, the last thing this idiot will see before he meets his actual maker.

The studio is silent save for the slight creaking as the informant tries to dislodge himself from the grappling hook he’s restrained to and the muffled groans as he realizes his efforts are futile.

James takes in the sight in front of him, surprisingly calming himself as he tapes his fingers. There’s no need to get worked up right away, he reasons. James plans to stretch this out for as long as possible.

But just as quickly as he wills himself to slow down and savor what’s coming next, he’s off to the races, landing two quick punches on the right hand to the guy’s liver, following it with a swift jab with his metal hand toward the kidney.

Muffled screams fill the room and it’s the sweetest sound James has heard all week.

By the time he’s finished and Rumlow’s back to assist with disposal, James’ right hand is in total disarray, black and blue and red stain his pale skin like watercolor on canvas. He’s sure he has some fractures maybe even a few broken bones but he hardly registers the ache. His brain is drowning in endorphins, blocking out any potential pain.

He’s feeling good, _great_ even, feels alive for the first time in a while.

He flies even higher when he gets the grand idea to take a trip to The Bronx.

\--------------

It’s one am by the time James finally fucking makes it to The Falcon.

He’s been pulled over twice, by two different cops for speeding — which, okay, he gets that, he was going 80 in a 55 but this is seriously putting a damper on his quality time with Sam.

One of the many perks of being James Barnes, renowned ass-kicker, is how often people are willing to look the other way when you’re up to no good.

Speeding aside, without bothering to change his bloodied clothes and right hand obviously in need of medical attention, James knows if he were anyone else, he would be spending the night in a holding cell — or better yet, fucking shot.

But Officer Barton just runs his plates, accepts the wad of cash James offers and goes about his way.

Officer Romanoff was a little harder to bribe, but everyone has their price; her’s just happens to be double what Barton was going for plus a promise for front row seats at the ballet that’s in town for a limited time.

The mayor himself couldn’t even get tickets.

When he finally arrives at the bar, he’s pleased to see Sam still there, tossing some asshole out with a threat to never come back again.

“Y’know bossy is a great look on you”, James says once he’s finally close enough to the owner to be heard over the thumping music.

“It’s sexy as hell”.

“Don’t you have lives to ruin?”, Sam genuinely inquires.

“Oh c’mon now baby, you know my routine by now: ruin lives first, come see you second.”

“How comforting”, Sam deadpans.

James knows this is their normal banter but tonight, for some reason, it feels different. He’s inclined to press the issue when he sees the same “new” faces as last time, pressed closely together in the back of the bar. Their demeanor screams ‘law enforcement’ and he wonders if they’re the reason Sam’s being so surly.

He hates to sound needy but Sam hasn’t smiled at him once and that’s the only thing James’ been looking forward to it since the last time he was here.

It’s his safe place.

He needs Sam’s attention on him right now.

The sudden, vicious throb in his right hand is the perfect distraction, quickly pushing away whatever those feelings just were, then he finally grabs Sam’s attention and they’re off to his office, a bottle of whiskey in tow.

It’s a routine they’ve done many times before, Sam immobilizing his knuckles, taping two of his fingers together while James drinks down the pain.

“You’re an idiot, y’know”, Sam says, breaking the silence between them.

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

A small scoff.

“How did I get so lucky?”

James is waiting for the ringer, the insult that sure to follow but it never comes. And it could be the alcohol impairing his judgment, but has Sam always been this close? Smelled this good?

Before he can stop himself, he’s leaning in, softly pressing his lips against Sam’s. It’s chaste and over way too quickly and he finally understands why he’s been holding back for so long.

His intentions were to make Sam ravenous for him but damn it, he’s the one hungry for it here.

Kissing Sam is like coming up for air after being submerged underwater for too long. James feels like he can breathe again, can feel the sun on his face, warming him up from his head to his toes.

And now that he’s went for it, he can’t stop, he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to kiss Sam until his lips chap and then more after that. He wants to engrain the taste of him so deep in his memories that he never forgets the taste of honey whiskey and cinnamon gum and how the two flavors combine to make something uniquely Sam.

Just as he’s about to pull away, afraid — that’s a new one, James is coming to terms with all types of new feelings tonight — that Sam has no real interest in this besides teasing, he feels Sam’s hands cup his face and pulls him in, kissing him deeply.

It’s — fuck — it’s so good.

Sam’s tongue licking across his bottom lip, then slowly slipping inside, claiming ownership, like James is for the taking.

This is not how he expected things to go.

He had no intention of letting Sam take full control and while arousing, this isn’t how he wants it. Pain be damned, James reaches to cup the back of Sam’s head with his right hand while the left fists his shirt. Tilting Sam’s head just where he wants it, he deepens the kiss further, licking into Sam’s mouth, then moving his ministrations lower, kissing and sucking at the man’s pulse point.

In his fantasies, the pace is nowhere near as languid as this. By this point, they should be smoking the after-sex cigarette but they’re still only kissing.

Surprisingly, James is having a hard time finding a problem with it.

Most of his recent hookups have been quick fucks, solely intended for a mutual benefit and nothing else. And as much as he wants to absolutely ravage Sam, leave him a quivering mess beneath him, he’s in no rush to get past this part.

To be fair, once he rolls one of Sam’s nipples between the fingers of his left hand, the coolness contrasted with the warm nub, Sam does start trembling, so he counts that as a win.

“I’ve thought about this”, Sam says, right hand pulling at the button and zipper on James’ jeans, moaning when he feels the drag of teeth on the sensitive part of his throat.

It’s James’ turn to moan once Sam’s hand finally gets his jeans down, underwear next and is finally wrapping around his dick. It would be so easy to let Sam drag his orgasm out of him like this, tight and quick strokes while he sucks marks onto his neck but he can’t — fuck — he can’t just let it end like this, he’s waited too long.

Rocking himself forward, he hitches Sam up, cupping the back of his knees with his arms and moans when Sam instinctively wraps his legs around James’ back, rocking their hips together. Still wrapped up in Sam, enveloped in the sight, smell and taste of the bar owner, James walks them backwards until he bumps them on the edge of Sam’s desk.

Dropping him on top of it, James takes a step back to admire his handiwork. There’s a litany of purple bruises on Sam’s collarbone leading to his neck and throat, like a mini constellation — fitting because Sam’s a star in his life, shining brightly whenever James’ world seems to get too dark.

“Are you waiting for an invitation?”, Sam snarks, leaning backwards on the desk to pull his pants down and his shirt up and over his head.

“Desperate for it, are we?”

“Fuck you.”

“I plan on fucking you actually.”

There’s only a brief pause as Sam gets his bearings but he’s rebounding, smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, a challenge.

“What are you waiting for then?”

The next kiss is nothing like the first one. This one is hungry, animalistic even, teeth knocking together as they both fight for dominance, only breaking as James pulls his shirt above his head, tossing it behind the desk.

His pants and briefs are next until he’s standing in the middle of Sam’s office naked as the day he was born — save for the metal arm — stroking himself as he watches Sam do the same.

Again, the thought passes his mind that he can get off just like this, watching Sam stroke his gorgeous dick, up, down, twist at the head.

But it wouldn’t be satisfying, no, he wants to be the one that brings Sam to his release.

“Come on”, Sam murmurs, hungry for it.

“Don’t make me beg.”

The very thought of Sam begging for him has James so close to blowing his load, ending things before they even get started, that he has to think about kittens or some shit — anything other Sam, willing and waiting in front of him.

His body’s moving faster than his brain and he’s kissing Sam again, harder, filthier, biting at his full bottom lip — hard enough to bruise, licking over it in apology. Then he’s replacing his tongue with two fingers, running them over the lip, dipping into Sam’s mouth to suck. Sam takes them to the second knuckle with no hesitation and James, for the second time in less than five minutes, feels himself on the precipice, threatening to tip over.

It’s embarrassing to say the least.

He could’ve sworn he had a stronger resolve than this.

But then there’s a knock at the door, just as his phone starts to ring and James is convinced the universe is fucking with him right now.

He wants to whine, wants to bar the door, throw his phone out of the window, keep Sam exactly where he is, naked and hard beneath him, but the knocking hasn’t stopped and the ringer seems to get louder and louder in the silent room.

If James actually does start to whine when he sees Sam start to redress, well, that’s nobody’s business.

Getting dressed with a broken hand is a hell of a lot more challenging when he’s so turned on he can die and that just adds to the petulance.

Sam must see the look on his face because he smiling at him, the smile James knows is reserved only for him and places a quick peck to his lips before he’s off to do what the fuck ever bar owners do, leaving James in his office.

For the second time in as many weeks, James tries to think of anything, something to will his hard-on away, answers his phone hoping for a distraction.

“Meet me in the office.” Steve's voice booms through the line.

James scoffs, hangs up the phone and lets himself out of Sam’s office.

There’s business to be handled.

\--------------

If he was a better man, James would let the two agents who’ve been tailing him since he left The Falcon, oblivious to the fact that he was on to them, do their job in peace.

There was no reason to engage, he could’ve continued to drive in circles like he’s been doing since he noticed the Ford Crown Victoria make the same two left turns as him.

There was no reason to take two more left turns, just to make sure he was indeed being tailed, pull his car over and wave over the agents.

But alas.

James knows how absolutely infuriating he is, infuriating Hydra is to the New York Police Department.

He knows how it must be absolutely defeating to have a vague idea of the enterprise’s doings but absolutely nothing material to pin to them.

He knows of the discord it must create between officers who took the oath together, served their entire careers together, and know that one of them has -- must be leaking information because just as soon as something substantial comes across their desks, the opportunity to bring about justice is gone just as quickly.

“And how may I be of service this evening officers?”, James starts, a shit-eating grin threatening to take over his face.

The grin gets wider as the officers approach his car.

They’re new, James quickly deducts. Even officers who aren’t on Hydra’s payroll know better than to engage with him. Even the ones who hate James still respect him.

These two have a point to prove, probably rookies who still believe that the system is legal and fair and that they can make a difference by working hard. They aren’t impressed with James' overzealous attitude, contempt written clear as day on both of their faces.

Making a show of placing his hands on the steering wheel, James watches as one of the officers — Rhodes, he notes — walks around his car, checking for anything to cite James for.

“Saw you leaving The Falcon awhile back, just wanted to make sure you were okay to drive”, the other one — Danvers — mentions, “we wouldn’t want anything happening to you, now would we?”

It’s a rhetorical question.

The answer’s obvious that Officer Danvers would like nothing more than for something to happen to James, that she would, in fact, celebrate the day it does.

But James has had his life threatened a multitude of times, even by officers of the law and as fate would will it so, he’s still here, and those who wished death upon him found their own demise instead.

With as much nonchalance as he can muster, James asks the officers if they need anything else from him, and if not, is he free to leave.

Danvers takes a step back from the window, leans down so she’s right in James’ face, so close he can see the flecks of hazel in her brown eyes.

“You be careful out here Buchanan”, Danvers croons, turning to walk back to the squad car, “the streets are a dangerous place for people like you”.

And then they’re off.

James follows suit, shooting Steve a message letting him know he’s running late.

\--------------

“We’re gonna have a fucking problem on our hands with those two.”

“Good morning to you too, James.”

Steve feigns nonchalance but as he currently watches his best friend pace a hole in the office’s carpet, he feels unease creep up his spine.

They’ve had their fair share of cops determined to take them down, they even have their own task force created for the cause but the way James is obviously so flustered by these two agents leaves Steve feeling unwell. The appearance of the rookies and James' nervousness is by no means a coincidence. Word had to have gotten out about the drop Hydra is expecting in three days. Coupled with the informant who somehow got all the way through to upper management — seriously, what the fuck is he paying the other guys for if anyone can just walk into their fucking safe house? — Steve knows something is wrong.

And he knows James feels it too.

“We can’t stop Steve, we’re too fucking close to the finish line to give up now.”

In the beginning, they planned to only stay in the game just enough to get by but as the money and the power rolled in, both friends found it hard to remember where the line was for how long they planned on doing this shit.

Demons somehow getting that close was a wake up to remind them both of the finality of their actions and how grim the end is for men in their line of work -- either the big house or a bullet.

The cops are getting smarter, their enemies are getting smarter and James is pretty sure someone in Hydra is playing both sides. The very thought is enough to send a chill down his spine, freezing him in place for only a second before he’s out the door and headed back to The Bronx.

\--------------

Fall is James' favorite season.

There’s something about the crisp, biting air and the crunch of leaves under his boots that ground him in a way nothing else in his life seems to.

As James Barnes, he’s expected to be this thing, this machine and while a part of him is literally quite made of metal, it’s not who he is exactly.

As Bucky, Steve Rogers’ oldest friend, he’s supposed to be someone else, a connection to the past where life was simpler and yet so much harder at the same time. And he is Steve’s oldest and truest friend, would die for him if need be but he isn’t 100% that person either.

Growing up in Brooklyn with a secret that could and has almost gotten him killed, James has often felt like he had to be different things to different people.

_ProtectorMonsterSoldier_

So many things to so many people that he’s afraid to admit that sometimes, he doesn’t know who he is at all.

He’s heard the legends, knows that his reputation proceeds him in places his foot has never stepped. But he’s not that person either.

It’s for this reason that James never lets himself get close to people — too afraid that their perceptions won’t match who he actually is.

That’s why he loves fall.

In this season, James, a tree in his own right — strong to the core, watches his own leaves fall. Watches as the pieces of him defined by others surrender and fall, stripping him of any preconceived notions of who he is and who he should be.

Trees survive the storm, survive the arctic winters and as time goes on, start again, with fresh leaves.

Fall shows James just how beautiful letting things go can be.

He didn’t think anything could be more beautiful than fall but that was until he met Sam.

Sam’s spring in full bloom.

Sam’s a new beginning, a reason for flowers to uncoil themselves, show their face to the sun.

He’s a renewing spirit, the literal passage from the dark coldness to the warmth of the sun. He’s a fire in a way James not, there’s nothing wild about him. He isn’t destructive like James, he’s a nurturing presence, feeding warmth and light to even the coldest of beings.

He’s a total balance of light and darkness, someone with their own skeletons but never lets them drag in him in the closet with them.

It’s admirable — _Sam’s_ admirable. A man worth loving wholly and purely, a man to change for.

James wants to change.

He’s been a fighter all of his life, fighting for scraps, fighting for his right to love who he wants to love, fighting for Steve then Hydra then both.

He’s tired of fighting, he just wants to rest now.

\--------------

For what it’s worth, James has known how he felt about Sam since the first day they met — intrigued by the gentle bravado that worked in a way no one else could pull off.

Which explains why once he’s come to his grand conclusion that he’s ready to put down the gloves and pick up Sam’s hand, nothing _extraordinary_ happens.

He’s waiting for that sign that comes when he’s making a shit decision, the fingers in his right-hand twitching, a knot pulling in his stomach but nothing happens.

There’s no cry from the heavens when he comes to terms with the fact that he loves the bar owner. There’s no threat of violence like the last time he verbalized his love for a man.

It’s just the crisp autumn wind blowing around him as he stands in front of the bar, illuminated by the red light of the neon sign.

The heavy wooden doors swing open and on cue, Sam walks through and even in the dark, Sam’s a sight to behold. He isn’t dressed in his normal club attire, this time it’s a thin sweater and black slacks, perfect for the weather and to showcase his build.

“They told me there was a weird guy standing outside the bar, figured it was you”, Sam says, the giant smile illuminating his face betraying his words.

And there he stands, James’ very own spring.

And so he prays to whatever deity out there that handles the requests of a sinner like him that James, a winter soldier — dark and icy, would be worthy of the sunshine, of the new beginning that was Sam Wilson.

A feeling of contentment settles in his stomachs and he smiles a little to himself, feels the smile stretches as he looks at Sam.

Then he’s closing the distance between them, steadfast and determined to pour every emotion into Sam, hopes the weight of it all doesn’t crush the man.

But just as James is strong to the core, able to withstand surmounting pressure, Sam is too and he kisses James back with just as much intensity, if not more. Shoulders the weight of their kiss, of their love like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

This isn’t like their first kiss, or second or eighth — and Christ, what took them so long to get here? — this one is lush and languid; there’s no rush, they have all of the time in the world to discover each other.

\--------------

The deity personally responsible for the requests of one James Barnes must be in a good fucking mood.

Cause he’s kissing Sam — really kissing him, all tongue and teeth, moaning into his mouth when Sam bites on his bottom lip and pulls away to whisper that he lives just down the block and James honestly thinks he died and went to heaven.

It’s not a reach when Sam’s pushing him up against his door, grinding their hips together, gripping James’ hip so roughly, he’s sure they’ll be bruises in the morning.

It’s still not a reach when he’s on his knees for the bar owner and he thinks this is the altar that he could worship at for the rest of his life.

James’ certain he’s actually ascended to the pearly gates when he’s finally flush against Sam, hips to ass and Sam’s underneath him panting.

It’s divine, it’s sinful, it’s everything James always thought it would be and yet, even his wildest fantasies don’t compare to the sight of Sam pulling his knees closer to his chest or the feeling of sinking deeper into the already impossibly tight heat.

They fuck twice that night, clinging to each other until James has to pull himself away to answer his ringing phone.

It’s Steve.

It’s Steve with a mission, a task to complete before the deal goes down in four hours.

It’s routine and familiar but James has the unsettling feeling that he’s reached an impasse; it’s either Steve or Sam, he can’t have both, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

It wouldn’t be fair to promise an undying loyalty to Steve and what they’ve built whilst simultaneously trying to flee from it to build his own life with Sam.

Wouldn’t be fair to promise Sam _anything_ because just as much as he wants a normal fucking life with him, people like James don’t get to make those decisions for themselves. He can’t drag Sam into his shit.

Just as his fight or flight instincts are kicking in, screaming for him to get away from Sam and never come back, Sam walks out of his bedroom, yawning as he approaches James.

“Can you please stop thinking so loudly?”, he chides, wrapping his arms around James’ midsection, “I can hear you in bed and these walls are soundproof.”

James sinks into the embrace, let’s himself be held, let’s himself feel _fragile_ and cared for. Let’s himself imagine a life where this could be the norm, rough sex and gentle embraces. All with someone who he loves with all of his heart.

A sharp pain snaps him out of his thoughts, quickly realizes that Sam has bitten him on the shoulder —

“Seriously, what is going on with you?”

James’ default setting is to lie, to hide who he is and what he does but he’s been doing that all of his life. He doesn’t want to take those old habits into this new thing with Sam. He wants Sam to know him, wholly, and then decide from there if this, if James, is still something he wants.

And for the first time in his life, James Barnes bares his soul, prays that it, stained tar-black, doesn’t taint Sam forever.

\--------------

Just as they expected, everything goes to shit at the drop.

The rookie officers are there — the entire New York Police Department is there, _anyone_ with a badge and any kind of jurisdiction in New York or the East Coast, in general, are there to witness the fall of Hydra.

James can’t say that they weren’t warned.

The skies are painted dark, threatening clouds overtake the city, darkening what was supposed to be a clear day. There’s the smell of rain in the air but it never comes, lighting and thunder zipping through the sky, electrifying the air.

He ran late, the lone alarm on his cell phone never going off, practically pleading James to stay in bed, wrapped in Sam’s arms. It’s a tempting offer for sure; Sam radiating more heat than a furnace, his weight heavy yet comforting on James’ side.

But his mind makes the decision for him; it makes him get as far away from Sam as possible because, in the few hours of sleep, James dreams for the first time in years.

_He’s at The Falcon, except it’s empty. _

_No furniture, no stage, no liquor bottles adorning the walls._

_ In the middle of the bar stands Sam Wilson, his Sam dressed in a plain black tuxedo, twiddling what looks like a gold band on his left hand. He’s smiling at James, a smile that even in a dream, still makes his heart skip a beat. _

_But then his face is distorted, twisting into something ugly — and that’s now how anyone could ever describe Sam. He’s beautiful inside and out — wait, why is he making that face? _

_His eyes drop to find a VZ 61 Skorpion in his left hand, a personal favorite. _

_The metal fingers move on their own accord, pulling the trigger, killing the only thing he loves. _

_This is the only thing he is, the only thing he’ll ever be._

James’ side of the bed is cold by the time Sam wakes up.

\--------------

What’s supposed to have been a routine drop turns into a full-fledged shootout in record time.

James isn’t sure who shot first or why but it doesn’t matter. Hydra is outgunned, outmanned and out of time.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it back to Sam in one piece.

Crouching from behind the truck they arrived in, James aims his weapon — the Skorpion again, and fires two shots, killing two agents in one fell swoop. Steve shoots out the tires of the car they’re behind, eliminates the ability for a cheap shot. Then he’s shooting through the window, taking out three more officers and the tide’s beginning to turn. They aren’t as outgunned or outmanned as at first but with a firefight breaking out in the middle of New York, he’s certain backup is on the way.

If he and Steve can just make it to the sewer, they can escape to the safe house and figure it the fuck out from there.

They radio into Rumlow, who uses his vantage point to let them know of an escape route since the first four got blown all to hell.

James throws a smoke bomb, just enough to create a divergent and he and Steve are off, hightailing it to the sewer.

Steve’s in the pipe, reaching up to grab James when a bullet flies through the air, hitting James square in the shoulder.

He more or so falls into the sewer after that.

\--------------

The trek back to the meeting spot is challenging but they make it.

They separate at the safe house.

After changing clothes and discarding their disguises, they promise to see each other soon, maybe not here in New York or even in the States at all, but somewhere in this world, they will reunite — nothing in life nor death can separate the brothers.

To the end of the line.

\--------------

He’s just glad to have made it out alive.

Doing a once over, James is certain that he’s fucked up. From the pain that ricochets in his chest every time he breathes, he’s sure he has a punctured lung, probably some internal bleeding as well. His right side is throbbing, and just from experience, he knows he has broken ribs.

On the _bright_ side, upon closer inspection of his right shoulder, he found an exit wound from the bullet so that’s something.

He’s alive.

The thought alone makes him want to scream out, both in happiness and in mourning.

He’s lost so much over the span of the day. He lost Steve, he’s lost what they’ve built together, he’s lost — losing — a shit ton of blood.

The adrenaline is pouring through him, gives him just enough strength to get in his car and drive. He doesn’t know where he’s going — that’s a lie, he knows exactly where his body is taking him. It’s like he’s moving on autopilot, some force of nature pulling him and the car to The Falcon; he’s not sure if he even has the keys in the ignition, he just feels the motion of the car moving, stopping and then moving again.

In what could have been two minutes or two hours, he’s sitting outside the bar, willing whoever’s listening to grant him enough strength to make it inside. He’s feeling lightheaded, each step heavier than the last, but he exerts his last bit of energy to push past the heavy doors of the bar.

His eyes immediately land on Sam and he sighs in relief; he honest to God doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here.

“I’m starting to think you’re getting your ass beat as an excuse to come and bother me”, Sam says as he lines up two shots of whiskey and slides them over to Bucky.

Bucky pauses, lets his eyes rake down Sam’s body, not even bothering to hide his want.

It’s for show mostly, he doesn’t have the strength for a smart remark, can’t even think of a quip right now. But one thing’s for certain, he does want Sam.

He’s wanted him the very first day they met, loved the man full of contradictions — harsh words yet careful touches — the first time they ever interacted, he knew immediately that he would die for Sam if necessary.

And in each visit, he fell deeper into his own ruse. Almost convinced himself what he felt for Sam was purely surface level, that the banter meant nothing and the nights when he went to sleep with only Sam on his mind and woke up with Sam’s name on his lips were all coincidental.

He wants a lot of things, he wants to see a doctor about the crushing weight on his chest, constricting his ability to breathe. He wants to tell Sam how he feels, wants to tell him about a different crushing weight on his chest, constricting his heart.

He wants to be a better person for the man standing in front of him. Wants to compliment him without prefacing it with an insult first. Wants to see if he’s as beautiful when he wakes up or when he’s off to sleep as he is at the bar. Wants to be someone to be proud of and not feared.

He wants something that his current lifestyle is not.

Normal.

There’s some kind of fucked-up form of deja vu happening right now and it doesn’t get past James in the slightest.

The first time he met Sam Wilson, he was standing in the middle of this bar, bleeding from a bad fight, smiling from the pure adrenaline of it all, of beating the odds, of fighting and winning.

This time he’s in the middle of the same bar, bleeding _and_ shot from a bad fight, smiling because he’s beaten the odds again. He’s back in Sam’s arms, letting the man tend to him as he curses him out for “not going to a fucking professional, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

Before he can stop himself, James’ smiling, fully, unabashedly at Sam, feels the smile threaten to overtake his face when he sees Sam smiling back at him despite himself.

Whatever trouble lies outside of The Falcon is James’ and James’ alone, but right now, he’s won.

He loves Sam in every way imaginable, personal, universal, loves the way he speaks, loves the gap in his teeth. Loves that Sam is so wholly himself, so comfortable in his own identity, that it’s made James more comfortable in his by default.

He gets to love Sam as loudly as he pleases, as freely as he pleases and above all, that’s the biggest win.

It could be the loss of blood or the idea that Sam is his to have and hold but James is _giddy_, joyfully delirious at this point.

With as much strength as he can muster, he leans up into Sam, kisses him sweetly, deeply.

“Now you’re getting it.”

**Author's Note:**

> my apologies if this is all over the place -- an absence of a coherent narrative is exactly what happens when you put the horse in front of the carriage and make a fucking moodboard before you even write one word of the story. 
> 
> https://capmackie.tumblr.com/post/187448620535/one-for-the-money-two-for-the-show
> 
> anyways, come and tell me what you think or talk to me about sambucky | samjames. 
> 
> tumblr : capmackie


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